A Royal baby

News broke yesterday of a baby for William and Kate, Duke and Duchess of Cambridge.

I reacted to this news, which tabloids have been speculating about since probably the day after the world met Pipa’s hind-end, in a way that surprised even me.

I burst into tears. At work no less. For the second time that day.

My first thought: “I hope she doesn’t hurt her pelvis.”

Reflecting on this, I’m certain it was neither a normal nor healthy reaction to news that in no way relates to my life. And taken together with my other episode of the day, it could be the symptom of a much more deep-seeded problem.

In the interest of full disclosure, the “other episode” was a near cry, and then full on cry, after a friend send me a picture, which she received from another friend, of that woman’s baby surrounded by clothes hangers while she peacefully slept on the bed. The caption said “Baby (name) helps Mommy with the laundry.”

I’m sure this was a very normal thing for a new mom to do. But it wasn’t something I ever got to do with my son. And I guess I didn’t really have a chance to realize that before. So I cried about it.

Once I got home I had a good, hard cry. Then I pulled myself together to take care of the Little Guy while my husband worked a basketball game. And when the Little Guy was sound sleep I cried some more. I was asleep on the couch when my husband got home. I don’t remember the last time (before this) that I cried myself to sleep.

This morning, when I spoke with my boss about it, she said she thought I could have Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Who knows, but it is something I don’t want to let fester inside me.

I saw a pregnant student on campus today and I thought: “I hope she’ll be OK.” It can’t be a good thing for me to suppose every woman could end up like me. Like us, the diastasis symphysis pubis mommy’s of the world.

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